


The Disney Version

by JoMarch, RyoSen



Series: The Mollyverse [3]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 20:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1278562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoMarch/pseuds/JoMarch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyoSen/pseuds/RyoSen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Jordon Moss-Lyman, Master Politician, Junior Grade, cons her parents into a trip to the happiest place on earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: None we can think of.
> 
> Disclaimer: Josh and Donna are Aaron's; Molly and Adira are ours.
> 
> Thanks: To the lovely people who voted Molly Outstanding Original Character in the Jeds, to Dena and Meg for title suggestions, and to Morgan, as ever, for the commenting, the cheerleading, and the stylesheeting. :)

Whistle while you work.

A dream is a wish your heart makes.

Someday my prince will come.

Yeah, right.

Like most American children, my sister Frances and I were fed a steady diet of Disney propaganda. Frances, in fact, turned the worship of all things Disney into a religion. She studied those films as though they held the meaning of life. As she never tired of pointing out to me, we could have been Disney princesses. We had the look -- tall, blonde and thin. She insisted that we divide them up: she got to be Sleeping Beauty; I was Cinderella. I think what Frances really wanted was to wear the dress that turned blue and then pink -- two dresses for the price of one. Frances was the queen of power shopping even at the age of ten. But the division suited us. Sleeping Beauty, in the Disney version, lived a life of splendid isolation, adored and waited on by her three fairy godmothers and the requisite cute forest creatures. Cinderella, by contrast, was the hardworking family outcast. Frances used this to her advantage, conning me into doing her chores by telling me that I was playing Cinderella.

Give me a break: I was six years younger and one foot shorter than she was.

My version of Cinderella didn't whistle while she worked so much as she fantasized about her wicked sister coming down with a horribly disfiguring disease.

Disney heroines, however, never complain out loud, so I pretended to enjoy my status as the passive, industrious princess-in-waiting. And in true Disney fashion, I found my prince.

Unfortunately for me, on close examination, the prince turned out to be more of a frog. Or a leech. After several years of watching Dr. Not-So-Charming work his way through my savings account, I turned off the Disney channel, turned on C-SPAN, and never looked back.

While I can hardly blame Walt Disney for the poor choices I made at the age of twenty, I can and do maintain that a steady diet of Cinderella, Snow White and their ilk never helped build a woman's self-esteem. That is why the Moss-Lyman household is a Mouse-free zone.

My daughter is not going to grow up thinking she needs a man to be complete. She is not going to go through life thinking a woman needs to be so cheerful that cartoon bluebirds will perch on her shoulder. She is not going to think that success is measured in terms of how many pretty dresses you have or whether the prince asks you to the ball.

And she sure as hell is not going to Disney World.  
***

"Disney World?" Donna repeats, eyes wide as she stares at our daughter.

Molly, grinning and wriggling in her bed (she can't sit still when she's excited about something), claps her hands. "Yes! Daddy's gonna take me to meet Goofy!"

Those blue laser beams swing in my direction. "Oh, he is, is he?"

I swallow hard and try that smile Donna claims she can't resist. The one with the dimples that makes me look like, in my wife's words, an adorably mischievous boy. It doesn't seem to be working its usual charm; she's still glowering at me. I inch closer to Molly, pulling her back against my chest. "Molly and I were discussing a trip to--"

"Disney!" Molly interrupts cheerfully.

See, I would have said Florida, playing up the angle about visiting my mother, and sort of... mentioning Disney in passing. Despite Molly's occasional ability to trick me into agreeing to something ridiculous (like, say, a trip to Disney), I am still the master strategist in this family.

Molly slithers out of my arms and jumps to her feet, bouncing a little on the bed. Being Molly, she takes one step to the edge of the mattress and launches herself at Donna. I see it coming a half-second too late to stop the pint-sized missile, but Donna manages to catch Molly, who looks back at me with a gleeful expression. "Disney, Daddy!"

Donna readjusts Molly and drops onto the edge of the mattress, facing me across the Powerpuff Girls sheets. "Joshua, did you tell Molly that--"

"I may have accidentally said something about meeting Goofy, yes."

An eyebrow arches upwards. "May have?"

"Did!" Molly interjects happily. She pulls out of Donna's arms, scampers up the bed, and gives me a full contact hug. "Daddy loves me," she tells Donna.

Donna's mouth purses into a very displeased shape. "We are not going to Disney World," she declares. It's her "don't even think about arguing with me" tone. Molly and I exchange looks, and my daughter settles more securely against my side. I'm sure we are the very picture of loving father and irresistible daughter.

"But Daddy promised," she whispers plaintively.

Donna's eyes narrow in a most alarming fashion. "Joshua," she says ever-so-sweetly. "Is this true?"

"Um," I parry wittily.

She reaches out for Molly, taking her hand. "Molly, do you remember what we talked about?"

Molly blinks. "Democrats?"

"No, about how we have to decide things as a family?" Donna prompts.

"Yes," Molly answers, crestfallen. "But Daddy promised I could meet Goofy."

"I know, honey," Donna says, and I can tell by the tone of her voice that she's wavering, "but Daddy and I need to discuss this."

Okay, I may have the tactical maneuvering skills, but my daughter is the unchallenged master of the Dejected Child Ploy. Her lower lip is quivering, her big, brown eyes are overflowing with tears, and she's sniffling bravely. "Okay, Mommy," she says mournfully with a longing look in the direction of her bookshelf. Atop which sits the plush Goofy that got me into this in the first place.

I can tell Donna's starting to waver in her determination; she's no stronger than I am when faced with Dejected Molly. And I can tell you what's going to happen next: She'll get mad at herself for being unable to resist Molly's pleas, but she'll take it out on me, claiming that it's all my fault.

Which, of course, this time it kind of is. Kind of.  
***

"I will admit that promising Molly a trip to Disney World was a tactical error on my part," Josh says as we close our daughter's bedroom door and head down the hall to our own room, "but I did promise."

"We are not going to Disney World," I repeat. I am sounding like a broken record on this subject, even to myself.

"Donna." Josh puts an arm around my shoulders and smiles at me. He is bringing the dimples out on purpose, damn him; he knows my weakness for the dimples all too well. "What with you and my mother and CJ, it's not like one little trip to Disney World is going to damage Molly's psyche. She's already... turning into quite the mini-feminista."

Josh's tendency to refer to the women in his life as "feministas" is actually kind of cute, but I'm annoyed and in the mood to let him suffer.

"Feminista?" I repeat. As Josh realizes his latest tactical error, the Moss-Lyman household has an uncharacteristic moment of silence. All you can hear are the sounds of the wheels turning in my husband's brain and the occasional squeaky floorboard.

"I meant 'feminista' in the good way, of course."

"Of course you did." He's not bad looking when he's trying to be apologetic. I place my index finger over his lips before he can open his mouth too quickly and say something else we will regret. I nod discreetly, indicating the direction of the squeaky floorboards, and wait while Josh takes a moment to look behind me and organize his thoughts.

Grinning way too enthusiastically as he meets my eyes again, he says. "The thing is that we do need to go to Florida. We need to tell Mom about..." He gives me a quick kiss, and I swear I hear applause. "...about our latest adventure in stamp collecting."

"Fine, then. We compromise. Florida and a trip to the beach. Molly can see the fish. She can play in the sand. She'll have a great time."

"We promised her Disney."

" _You_ promised her Disney. I was not privy to those negotiations."

"Still, it was a promise."

"She played you, Josh." I may be grinning, but I think this is a very good point to say out loud at this moment. "Let's be clear on this--the Master Politician was outmaneuvered by a four-year-old."

"A fond father made a promise. That's not the same as a deal." He raises his voice in order to make sure he's understood. "Promising Molly Jordan a trip to Disney World in no way constitutes a deal."

There are moments when the Master Politician needs to be reminded how fallible he really is. I do believe this is one of them.

"I'd be willing to put Disney World on the table," I say.

Josh will not walk into a trap that easily. Another floorboard creaks as he contemplates my sudden change of heart.

"In exchange for what?" he asks.

"Admit it. Molly is the Master Politician in this house. You, my friend, are a rank amateur by comparison." After kissing his cheek for a minute, I whisper in his ear, "Come on, Josh. It will be good for her. It might even counteract some of that patriarchal Disney crap, you know."

"Donna." He draws my name out, making it three syllables as he whines like a child being forced to eat his vegetables.

"I'll make it up to you later tonight, I promise," I whisper.

He sighs, takes a few steps back, and solemnly announces, "I, Joshua Mateusz Lyman, do hereby officially announce that I have been outmaneuvered by Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman, Master Politician, Junior Grade."

"Well, okay then. Since you're a big enough man to admit it, I'm willing to deal. I guess this means we're going to Disney World."

There is a high-pitched squeal that resembles nothing so much as Cinderella's singing mice. Molly, blonde hair all tangled and one sock missing, comes running out from hiding and jumps into her father's arms.

"I'm going to Goofy's house," she announces as she reaches her little arms out to me. "I'm really, really going to Goofy's house."

"And, more importantly, Grandma's," I remind her.

Molly squeals again as the next logical thought hits her. "Grandma can come with us to see Goofy!" 

"Somehow I wouldn't count on that," Josh mutters.

Molly nods her tiny head emphatically. "Yes. Yes, she will. 'Cause I'll make her. 'Cause I am the Master Politician." She smiles directly at me, an uncanny imitation of her father at his most wolfish.

And I was worried that exposure to Disney was going to stunt her self-esteem?

What the hell was I thinking?  
*

"M-I-C-K-E-Y-M-O-U-S-E!" Molly sings for, oh, the twentieth time since I woke her up this morning. No, I don't mind. Not one bit. My favorite thing to do in the morning? Wake up, spend twenty minutes trying to convince myself that I don't have morning sickness, lose that particular battle, and emerge from the bathroom to discover my daughter marching around the kitchen while literally singing the praises of a corporate trademark.

My husband -- who has been conned by a four-year-old into taking a trip to the one place he'd enjoy less than a Republican convention -- is smiling beatifically at his offspring. I see this for what it is, of course. It's a conspiracy. Having succumbed to Molly's superior powers of persuasion, Josh has joined forces with her. They're dredging up that old standby, The Exuberantly Happy Child, to win me over to the Dark Side.  
Am I mixing my pop culture references here? Disney, Star Wars -- who can keep them straight anyway?

And why doesn't Dora the Explorer have a theme park? Molly loves Dora. I love Dora. Dora goes, well, exploring. She teaches children the occasional Spanish phrase. Plus she carries a backpack. She's a natural obsession for a Lyman offspring to have.

But, no, despite my best efforts to maintain a Disney-free environment, the Mouse has gotten his white-gloved paws on my daughter.

I am a failure as a mother.

Still feeling queasy but thinking that the worst has passed, I take a chair next to my husband and I groan more from the perpetual Disney overload we've been on around here lately than from morning sickness.

I'll say one thing for the aforementioned husband: he's well trained. He automatically pulls his chair closer to mine, rubs my back, and passes me a cup of caffeine-free tea and a nice, bland piece of toast.

Yeah, there's definitely a reason I keep the man around.

"M-I-C-K-E-Y," Molly begins again. Someday she's going to blow them away in the Senate with her oratorical skills. And, you know, her ability to project her voice to the back of the gallery.

"Didn't that song used to have verses?" I ask.

Molly comes to a sudden halt, and her face lights up. "We could go to the store and buy Mickey Mouse cartoons and find out," she suggests. She actually blinks her eyes at her father coquettishly as she says this.

See? Damn corporate monolith is already trying to separate my toddler from her college fund while turning her into a gender stereotype.

Dora the Explorer would never let me down like this.

"Mommy doesn't feel like going out," Josh explains. "Her tummy hurts."

Molly, who cannot stand the idea of anyone she loves suffering, takes this as a cue to give me a hug. Unfortunately, her idea of hugging also involves running full tilt toward me, landing on my already sensitive stomach with enough force to remind me why I never intend to have sex again.

I am not going to throw up. I am not going to throw up. I am absolutely not going to -- Oh, damn.

I barely get the bathroom door closed before the anguished cries begin: "Mommy, are you sick?" "Donna! Donnatella, are you okay?" This is followed with a round of "Should I call the doctor? Was it this bad last time? I don't remember it being this bad last time. Should I call CJ? Or what about my mother? I mean, CJ's in California and Mom's in Florida, but they could get here by tonight and--"

Josh's monologue is interrupted by a plaintive cry of "I hurt Mommy!" The sobs coming from the other side of the bathroom door break my heart, but I'm kind of busy at the moment. Josh will have to play the role of comforting parent for a few minutes longer.

You know, besides sex, I could give up food. Just for the next seven months or so.  
*

While traveling with Molly presents its own challenges, what's really difficult is the preparation. The child insists on planning everything down to the smallest detail.

Contrary to what Josh says, she did not inherit this trait from me.

Planning for the Disney trip is a serious business for Molly. It's also an exercise in diplomacy. Molly is allowed to pack one suitcase and, of course, she gets to carry her favorite backpack onto the plane. This means she only has room for one of her beloved stuffed animals. Not only does she need to decide which member of her menagerie to take, she has to issue formal apologies to those left behind.

At the moment, Molly is sitting on the edge of her bed, having a heart-to-heart discussion with Franklin the stuffed frog while Lyndon the stuffed lion looks on. (As you can probably tell, the naming of stuffed animals is a father-daughter bonding thing.) Franklin is the newest addition to the collection, and this is Molly's first trip away from home since she acquired him. She is, therefore, making sure that Franklin doesn't feel neglected because he's not traveling to Florida with us. 

The speech she gives Franklin is eerily similar to the talks she has with Josh whenever he leaves for Pennsylvania. I'm halfway between amused and teary-eyed as I listen to her adapt his words for a stuffed frog's benefit.

"You see," she explains, "we have to take turns, and this is Lyndon's turn. But you don't have to worry because the other animals are going to take good care of you, and I'll call home every night to make sure you're safe and tell you a bedtime story." She picks Franklin up so that she's looking into his eyes. "Now it's not the phone in the living room; it's the pretend phone. I love you very much, and I'll be home next week."

Franklin gets special treatment since he hasn't been through this before, but each stuffed animal is taken down from its perch and petted and kissed and hugged.

"So Lyndon's going with us?" I ask. "I'd thought you'd want to take Goofy."

"Mommy," Molly replies in that "don't you know anything, woman?" tone she picked up from her father. "It's Lyndon's turn."

"How do you decide whose turn it is?" I ask, although I suppose I should just be thankful that I don't have to fit Adlai the alligator into a suitcase.

"The animals had an election," Molly explains, "and Lyndon won."

I fear that a complicated discussion of voting rights and campaign practices among animals is in my future; Molly is a true Lyman and finds the minutia of politics endlessly fascinating. The only way to redirect her is to appeal to her love of organization.

"Well," I tell her, "now that we've taken care of that, all we have to do is pick out your clothes for the trip."

Molly opens the closet door and stands still for a minute, contemplating her wardrobe.

Finally, she turns around to look at me. "This is a dif'cult decision," she announces.

"There are a lot of things to consider," I agree. "You have lots of new clothes Grandma hasn't seen yet."

"We should make a list of the new clothes," Molly suggests.

"That's a good idea."

Molly nods. "We're going to need the yellow index cards."

I have no idea why Josh thinks she takes after me.  
*  
Molly has enjoyed certain advantages during her young life.

While Josh and I are not wealthy, we are better off financially than many people. We've never had to worry about being able to provide for our daughter. Molly has never had to worry about whether Mommy and Daddy can feed her and keep a roof over her head. She knows we can dress her in clothes that will keep her warm in the winter. She assumes that we will take her to the doctor when she has a fever. She feels secure and safe and loved.

Those are the important advantages.

There are, however, certain perks that come with being the semi-official child of the Bartlet administration. Molly had three-and-a-half years to become accustomed to those perks, and she hasn't quite accepted the loss.

For example, she misses her Uncle Jed's big airplane.

For three-and-one-half years, Molly traveled on Air Force One. Flying on Air Force One is a phenomenal experience when you're an adult. For a toddler, it's like having your own giant flying playground. Molly enjoyed game after game of hide-and-go-seek with her Aunt CJ and her Uncle Sam during a flight to London. She learned to play checkers sitting across from her Uncle Leo on a flight to San Francisco. She was free, much of the time, to run and spin and dance in the aisles. And the chef always made strawberry shortcake for her.

Since the Republicans took office, Molly has logged an impressive number of hours on commercial airlines. But the commercial flights that other children view as a treat are, for Molly, a severe disappointment. She still questions us, every time, about why we have to fly in such a tiny plane. (Molly, it should be noted, has never been on a puddle jumper. Her definition of "tiny" is a 747.) She hates being strapped in for the duration, and looking at the clouds? Not so much fun without Uncle Jed there to explain how they're formed.

We won't even discuss Molly's reaction when she first encountered airline food.

Flying commercial has been Molly's first lesson in the transitory nature of power.

I had hoped she would come away from that experience with an understanding of how material privileges don't matter in the grand scheme of things. I had wanted her to learn the value of humility and coping gracefully with forces you can't control.

Instead, the lesson she learned seems to be summed up in two words: Losing stinks.

"How much longer till I get to ride in the _good_ plane again?" Molly asks as she looks around the cabin, disdain written clearly on her little face.

Josh, engaged in the arduous task of getting our carry-ons to fit in the overhead bins, replies absently, "About three-and-a-half years."

In other words, from Molly's perspective, a lifetime.

Wrong answer, Idiot Spouse.

We haven't even left the ground yet, and we're already experiencing turbulence. The worst kind of turbulence -- small child meltdown.

Molly has, by nature, a sunny temperament. She doesn't throw tantrums often. (Probably because she's discovered that manipulation is a far more effective tool.) However, she is four years old, and sometimes she balks when things don't go her way. I can read the signs: narrowed eyes, lower lip jutting out, tiny hands forming into fists. I am in an enclosed space with a child who is about to cry and yell and generally make the flight to Florida an unpleasant experience.

I have a sudden urge to stand up and apologize to everyone on board for having given birth.

I quell that urge and reach for the emergency bag I stashed at my feet. Like any good mother, I have come prepared with various coloring books, stickers and storybooks to keep my child happy and quiet during the flight.

"I don't want to ride on a little airplane," Molly starts in her best "life is unfair when you're four" tone. 

"I want--"

"Here, sweetie." I pass the first book I find over to her. "Why don't you look at this until Daddy finishes putting our luggage away?"

Molly gives me a skeptical look. She's a Lyman; she knows when she's being misdirected. But then her eyes grow wide, her smile reappears, and she holds the book as though it is some priceless relic of an ancient civilization.

"Mickey," she whispers in reverent tones.

Yes, in my rush to avert the oncoming tantrum, I have handed Molly the guidebook to Disney World. There are pictures. In garish color. And lengthy descriptions of all the rides. I am all too aware that Josh and I will have to spend the trip to Florida taking turns reading those descriptions to her.

It's going to be a long flight.

Dear God, but I miss Air Force One.  
***

"Mommy!"

Donna and I jerk awake, exchanging startled looks in the faint light. Molly generally wanders into our room and hops on the bed to wake us up; screaming bloody murder is really not her style.

After a moment of stunned inaction, we toss the covers off and jump out of bed. When I reach the blank, wallpapered section of wall where the door usually is, my sluggish mind finally remembers we're at my mother's.

"Josh," Donna calls, disappearing through the actual door. "Over here."

I make it into the hallway and meet my mother, wide-eyed and night-gowned.

"Joshua, is she okay?"

I shrug and brush past, reaching the open door to Molly's room in time to see Donna lifting Molly into her arms.

"Donna," I say, rushing to her side. "You're not supposed to lift--"

"Josh," she admonishes, rubbing Molly's back. "Not now."

I turn my attention to my daughter, who -- I lean closer. She doesn't even look worried, never mind terrified. I reach out to smooth her hair and realize my hands are shaking.

"Molly, honey, what's wrong?"

She opens those big, brown eyes and smiles at me. "Hi, Daddy."

"Hi, Pumpkin."

"Molly," Donna says, her voice the slightest bit unsteady. "Why were you screaming?"

"I wanted you," Molly answers simply.

I meet Donna's puzzled gaze. "Why didn't you come get us?"

Molly shrugs her little shoulders. "Couldn't find you."

A bit of the tension drains from my body.

Donna hugs her closer. "Oh, honey, we're right next door."

I glance over at my mother, standing in the doorway with one hand over her heart. "Mom? Are you okay?"

"Yes." She glides into the room. "I was just worried about my Little One."

Molly lifts her head from Donna's shoulder and all but hurls herself at my mother. "Grandma!"

Mom laughs, looks to Donna for permission, then pulls Molly to her. "Little One, what's all the screaming for?"

Molly leans toward her abandoned bed, reaching for something. Mom obliges, carrying Molly to the bed and dropping down to sit on the edge. Molly grabs her tattered blue blanket and settles onto her Grandma's lap.  
Holding out the blanket toward us, Molly solemnly announces, "I don't need this anymore."

Donna and I exchange a look.

"You don't want your blanket?" Donna asks.

Molly shakes her head. "Don't need it."

My mother ducks her chin, hiding what I'm sure is an amused look behind Molly's blonde head.

"Okay," I tell Molly, reaching for the blanket. "How about Mommy and I keep it for you in case--"

"Don't need it," she repeats.

At this, my mother laughs aloud, rocking Molly in her arms. "Little One, you are every bit as stubborn as your daddy was."

Molly turns big eyes toward her grandmother. "Daddy was stubborn?"

"Yes, your Daddy was very stubborn."

"Still is," Donna mutters.

"Hey."

She shrugs, unrepentant. "You are."

Mom turns Molly a bit so she can look her in the eyes. "Are you sure you don't want Mommy and Daddy to keep your blanket with them in case you want it?"

"I won't," Molly declares.

Mom beams at her, then looks over to Donna and me. "I really believe she won't."

Donna nods. "Okay, Molly, we'll get rid of your blanket." She glances at me, and we wordlessly agree to keep the tattered thing in the suitcase for the foreseeable future.

"Yay!" Molly claps her chubby little hands. "Grandma, I'm a big girl!"

Donna looks momentarily stricken, and I'm sure I do too. Molly has been a delight every single day of her life, but the thought of a teenager with her intellect, cunning, and bullheadedness is, quite frankly, terrifying.

Mom grins at us--I have a feeling she's remembering some of my teenage exploits -- and nods. "Yes, Little One. You're a big girl now."  
*  
After giving all of the adults in the house quite a fright, Molly is once again sleeping soundly. The rest of us need a little time to recover before we retire to bed. Which explains why we've drifted to the kitchen for some tea and brownies. Well, my mother and Donna are having tea; it's really just me who's having brownies.

I've got one hand on Donna's back, trying to ease the tension, and the other is busily stuffing brownies in my mouth. Mom blows softly on her tea, takes a sip, and asks, "You're ready for Disney?"

Donna nods. "I think so."

I give her an incredulous look. "You think?"

Having just sipped her tea, Donna merely glares at me. I press the palm of my hand flat against her spine the way she likes. "Show her the spreadsheet."

"Josh," Donna admonishes. Her mug clunks against the table.

"Spreadsheet?" My mother looks equal parts amused and curious as she sips demurely.

"Yeah." I'm grinning a little. "My wife actually made a spreadsheet of all the rides she can't--" 

Belatedly, the nickel drops. I turn an apologetic look Donna's way. "Uh..."

My mother places one hand on Donna's forearm. "Why can't you go on rides?"

"No reason," Donna and I answer in unison.

Yeah, like Adira Lyman's gonna buy that.

Mom raises one eyebrow imperiously and pats Donna's arm. "Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong," Donna assures her. "Really. I'm fine." She glances at me with a quizzical look. I nod, because, really, it's not like we're going to be able to avoid telling her now. My mother's more stubborn than CJ when she thinks something's being kept from her. Donna dips her chin and turns back to Mom. "I just can't go on some of the rides because--"

"We're having another baby!" I interrupt, too damn excited to wait any longer. Donna rolls her eyes, but she doesn't really seem too annoyed. Especially when she looks at my mother.

The expression on my mother's face is amazing; we ended up telling her about Molly over the phone, since we were crisscrossing the country in re-election mode. This right here, watching the realization and elation in my mother's eyes? Much better.

Mom's warm brown eyes brim with tears, and she leans over and engulfs Donna in a fierce hug. Then she stands, kisses Donna's forehead, and comes to me, beaming nearly as much as Donna. She wraps her arms around my neck. "My dear boy," she murmurs. "Congratulations."

I just hug her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume. Most of the time, I don't know what the hell I'm doing, parentally speaking. How did I end up responsible for this tiny person? How am I supposed to know what to do? But I think if I do even half as well as my parents did with me, Molly and little Joss will be fine.

My mother pulls back, swipes a stray tear from her cheek, and cups my face in her hands, just like she used to do with Joanie and me, and presses a kiss to my forehead. Then she grabs a brownie from the plate in front of me and sits back down, grinning. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thanks, Mom," Donna says, sniffling a little.

"How long have you known?"

"Not too long. He's due in early December," Donna answers.

Mom raises an eyebrow. "He?"

Donna shrugs. "Well, we're not sure, but--"

"But we've made all these plans," I interrupt with a smirk. "We've got a name and..." I shrug. "Stuff."

Donna tosses me an amused look. "Well argued."

But doubt has taken hold. How do we know that it's going to be a boy? "Wait -- what if it's a girl?"

Donna frowns. "You'd be disappointed?"

"No!" I touch her arm. "Not at all. My only wish is for a healthy baby."

She leans in and kisses me lightly. "Good answer."

I nod. "My point is that if it's a girl, we run right smack dab into your crazy-naming gene."

"Hey!" Donna protests. Then she grins. "'Smack dab?'"

I ignore her jab and concentrate on my mother, who looks entirely too amused. "Crazy-naming gene?" she asks.

I poke Donna's shoulder. "Tell her."

"Josh--"

"Tell her what you wanted to name Molly."

"I was on drugs," she points out.

"Donnatella," I grin. "Tell her."

Donna sighs, "Zelda."

My mother hides her grin behind her mug of tea. "That's a nice name."

"Zelda Eustacia, Mom."

Mom manages to stifle her laughter. Mostly. "That's..."

"Yeah," I nod. "Rolls right off the tongue."

Donna whacks my arm, but my mother merely says in her diplomatic fashion, "It would have been a unique name."

"That's one word for it," I mutter.

"Josh," Donna warns, stealing a brownie from me. That's fine. I really don't think I'd be able to sleep if I ate any more.

"You know," I say, "we should start to think about--"

"Josh, it's the middle of the night," Donna groans.

Mom just leans back in her chair to watch the floor show.

"Patricia," I offer. "There's a sensible Democrat name for you. Like Pat Schroeder."

"Josh--"

"Or Emma -- Emma Goldman. No, wait, that's too far to the left."

Donna and my mother exchange looks, then get up and place their mugs in the sink.

"Wait, where are you going?"  
*  
Molly's bouncing off the walls this morning, her unbrushed hair streaming out behind her as she flits around the kitchen. I'm amazed she slept last night with all the excitement -- a plane ride, a visit with grandma, and the anticipation of a trip to Disney World. Luckily, after her screaming fit and subsequent declaration of Big Girl-hood, Molly crashed. Donna, the self-appointed tour guide for the day, actually had to wake Molly up so we'd be ready to leave on schedule.

But ever since her eyes opened, Molly's been moving nonstop. My mother's sitting at the kitchen table, lingering over her morning coffee and watching her granddaughter with obvious adoration. Donna worries sometimes about Molly, who effectively has only one grandparent. But between the Bartlets, who consider Molly their de facto grandchild, and my mother, whose capacity for love is unmatched, Molly is a very lucky girl.

"Little One," Mom says, holding her hand out to Molly. "You need to sit down and eat breakfast."

Molly hurls herself into her grandmother's arms for a quick hug, then smiles guilelessly up at her. "Don't wanna eat," Molly says, stubborn as ever.

Mom mock frowns. "I don't think Mommy and Daddy will be too happy if you don't eat breakfast."

I put my hands on my hips and glower at my daughter. "What will Goofy think if you faint from sheer hunger?"

"Daddy," Molly laughs. "I'm not gonna faint." She's using her best "I'm so much smarter than my moronic parents" voice. It's frightening how good she is at that at the tender age of four.

"Still," I say seriously, "I wouldn't feel right about bringing you to Disney World without food. I guess we'll have to postpone the trip--"

"No!" Molly interrupts loudly. "No, no, no."

My daughter turns around and hoists herself onto her grandmother's lap. I find myself actually wishing for a camera, a somewhat disturbing thought. Fatherhood is slowly tearing all of my illusions away; I am, at least at this one thing, just like everybody else. I think my daughter is the smartest, most adorable, funniest, happiest child ever, just like every other father on the planet.

Laughing, my mother wraps her arms around Molly's waist, holding her relatively still. My daughter slaps the tabletop with the palms of her hands and gives me an expectant look. "I'll have cereal," she decides. "With lots and lots of milk, Daddy."

My mother is smirking at me over the top of Molly's blonde head. "In many ways, Josh, she is her father's daughter."

I retrieve the milk from the refrigerator. "Oh, like Donna's not stubborn." My lovely wife is currently upstairs beating back morning sickness by sheer force of will. Being a sensitive, caring husband, I cracked a joke and was banished from the room. She claims she'll be fine for the trip to Disney, and if I really loved her, I would stop making bad jokes and get my ass downstairs to take care of our daughter. Gotta say, I'm really enjoying the hormones.

I pour some Frosted Flakes into a purple plastic bowl, add a healthy amount of milk, and place it ceremoniously before my daughter. "Your breakfast, my lady."

Giggling, Molly picks up her Dora the Explorer spoon and digs in. Partway through her breakfast, she frowns and asks, "Where's Mommy?"

"She's getting ready," my mother answers.

"She has to put on a lot of sunscreen," I add, somewhat lamely. In my defense, I'm concentrating on packing up the gear necessary for a Disney excursion. It takes more planning than an invasion. Not that I'm ever involved in foreign affairs, but, you know, I imagine it would take a lot of planning.

Molly nods seriously, pausing with a spoonful of cereal halfway to her mouth. "Mommy and I have alabaster skin."

My mother presses a kiss to Molly's head and carefully shifts Molly's hand so that milk and cereal don't end up all over her favorite clothes. That's right, my four-year-old daughter struggled for a long time with the weighty question of which outfit she should wear to meet Goofy. I don't get women.

Mom catches my attention when she tells Molly, "You do have alabaster skin, and you should put on sunscreen, just like Mommy. Would you like me to help you?"

I shoot my mother a thankful look.

Molly, however, is unamused. "I don't need help." She twists in her seat and frowns up at her grandmother for good measure.

Mom nods and adopts a very serious look. "Right," she says. "Because you're a big girl."

"Yes!" Molly's grinning now, and squirming a bit in her excitement. My mother deftly removes the spoon from her chubby little hand before letting Molly down. "I'm a big girl," Molly repeats, arms spread wide to draw all attention her way.

I can't help but rumple her hair a little while I retrieve the cereal bowl from the table. "How about," I say, bending over to look Molly in the eye, "you let Grandma help you with the hard-to-reach spots. Like here." I tickle the back of her neck, and she shrieks with laughter. "And here." Behind her knees.

"Daddy!" Molly protests, slipping past me to hide behind my mother. "Don't like to be tickled."

"Then why are you laughing?" I ask, taking big, slow steps toward her.

"Josh," Mom interjects. "You really want her wound up for the car ride?"

Spoilsport. "Yeah," I say. "Good point. " I lean sideways so I can see Molly peering at me from behind my mother's hip. "Molly Jordan, you need to let Grandma help you with the sunscreen, okay?"

"What do I get?" Molly asks, tipping her head to see me more clearly.

"You get to go to Disney World," I answer.

"I want a hat," Molly says. "Mickey's hat."

Mom twists in her seat to look down at Molly. "You mean Mickey Mouse ears?"

"Yes!" Molly exclaims, dancing out from behind the chair. "I want ears!"

"You already have ears," I point out sensibly.

Molly laughs. "Silly Daddy."

"He is," my mother agrees. "How about I make you a deal?"

"Okay," Molly answers, bouncing a little in her excitement. Molly is quite confident in her abilities to bargain with Donna and me. But I don't think she realizes that I learned negotiation at the knee of Adira Lyman.

My mother leans down, resting her elbows on her knees to get closer to eye level with Molly. "If you let me help you with the sunscreen, I'll make sure that your Mommy and Daddy will get a set of Mickey Mouse ears just for you. They'll get you one with your name on it."

Molly's eyes get very, very wide. "My name?" she echoes.

I have to bite down hard on the inside of my lip to keep from laughing out loud at the expression of awe on my daughter's face.

Mom nods solemnly. "Your name."

Excitement overtakes Molly, and as usual, she expresses her joy with every available sense. She's laughing and singing and dancing around the kitchen, her little body vibrating with happiness. Mom, the Annie Oakley of the West Palm Beach set, has her camera out and starts snapping pictures.

Because "shy" is just about the last adjective an objective observer would choose to describe my daughter, Molly stops in the middle of the kitchen and poses -- hands on her hips, head tilted to one side -- and flashes a winning smile. As soon as the flash dissipates, Molly tackles me, hugging my waist and smiling up at me. "Daddy, did you hear what Grandma said?"

"Yes," I tell her, scooping her up. "A Mickey Mouse hat with your name right on it."

Molly throws her arms around my neck and hugs me. Then she smiles over my shoulder at my mother and says, "I love Grandma."  
***

I don't remember my first pregnancy being this overwhelming.

Oh, sure, I recall the mixture of adulation and total panic I felt when I held that little stick from the home pregnancy test in my hands and realized that I was about to become someone's mother. But, on the whole, the experience of being pregnant with Molly was -- well, I didn't feel quite so isolated.

Maybe it was because we were all still recovering from the MS scandal and the Congressional hearings, but it seemed as though the entire West Wing had taken a stake in Molly's birth. Everywhere I turned, people were taking care of me. Carol, Bonnie, Ginger and Margaret volunteered to take over some of my chores in the Operations Bullpen so that I could go back to school or make it to my doctor's appointments. Leo forced Josh out of the building at 6 p.m. so that we wouldn't be late for Lamaze class. The First Lady, still stinging from giving up her medical license and needing to feel like a doctor in some way, I suppose, would call me over to the residence once a week and quiz me about my condition. CJ had Sam and Toby move her couch into Josh's office during my third trimester so that I could rest while Josh, the king of multitasking, simultaneously fussed over me and harassed members of Congress via phone.

This time, I feel more alone. CJ's in California, the Bartlets are in New Hampshire, Margaret went to Boston with Leo, and Carol's getting her Ph.D. at Columbia. Bonnie and Ginger don't know about the pregnancy yet, and even if they did, believe me, they have more than enough to keep them busy as the entire support staff for Ziegler & Lyman Consulting.

So here I am, the victim of rampaging pregnancy hormones, feeling sorry for myself on this day that is supposed to be devoted to Molly. I am a failure as a mother.

I am also in danger of losing the battle against morning sickness. Again.

As much as I hate the thought of Disney World, I want Molly's day to be special. That means I absolutely cannot give in to this morning's wave of nausea.

We have a long day ahead of us -- one that begins with a road trip. Do you have any idea how ill the thought of driving to Orlando makes me right now?

I know I'll be fine in an hour or two, but we wanted to get an early start. Like me, Molly is a morning person. She's likely to get tired and cranky mid-afternoon, and I don't want her memories of this excursion to be ruined because her energy gave out before she got to go on any of the rides.

On the other hand, having to pull over to the side of the road because Mommy kept getting carsick wouldn't be much of a memory either.

I hate this. I absolutely hate this. I should be fixing Molly's breakfast. (Oh, god, wrong thought!) I should be getting her dressed and ready for her trip to Goofy's house.

I am, indeed, a terrible mother.

I thought this would get easier. I thought that, by now, I'd have the hang of this motherhood thing. I didn't think that the prospect of getting through the next seven months, trying to balance my school work, my marriage, my pregnancy and my daughter, would be more than I can handle.

Oh god, I just put "my daughter" at the end of that list. Further proof that I'm a rotten parent.

With a sense of timing that is every bit as impressive as the fairy godmother in a Disney movie, my mother-in-law chooses the moment I'm about to break into tears to knock on the bedroom door. Judging from the look on her face when she enters, Mom must think I'm a mess. She holds out her arms to me, and I slip into them, sobbing as though I were Molly's age. Before I know it, I'm pouring my heart out, talking semi-coherently about disappointing my daughter.

Mom guides me back to the bed, where I lay my head against her shoulder until this latest attack of hormones begins to subside.

"I'm sorry," I say, swiping a hand against my face to get rid of the tears. "I have to stop getting all emotional like this."

"Donna, you're allowed to get emotional. You're pregnant. Do you think I didn't have my share of outbursts when I was carrying my children?"

"I can't imagine you being anything other than perfect," I tell her sincerely. "I think you must just have sailed through both your pregnancies."

"Hardly," Mom says with a fond smile. "When I was pregnant with Joanie, I was so frightened. It was a very different time, after all, and we didn't have all the books and TV shows telling us what was normal and what wasn't. I remember missing my mother so very much then." She gives me one of those looks that Josh calls frighteningly perceptive and says, "Just like you still do, I imagine."

It's true, of course. Even though I haven't seen my parents since the Christmas before I married Josh and even though it's a connection I have no desire to re-establish when my damn hormones are under control, there is this primal need when you're pregnant to have your mother beside you. I hated myself for feeling it when I was expecting Molly and I thought I'd be over it by now, but there it is. Unlike those Disney heroines who can go singing through life without a care for their absent mothers, lately I find myself missing a woman whose love for me was always conditional. 

"What scares me sometimes," I find myself confessing, "is that I'll turn out like her. I don't want Molly to think I won't love her if she makes different decisions in life than I did."

"My darling girl," Mom says, taking my face in her hands, "that child downstairs is as secure in her parents' love as any little girl could be. I am so proud of the parents you and Joshua have become. Our Molly knows that her mother and father will stand by her no matter what she chooses."

"I hope so."

Mom smiles at me, her eyes twinkling in that mischievous way that is so typical of my husband and daughter. "I daresay she could vote Republican and not fear her parents' wrath."

"That's true," I say, and to my amazement, I realize that I'm laughing. "But she'd face one hell of a debate from her father."

"No doubt she'd win," Mom replies as she hugs me closer and stands up. "Now we'd best go downstairs before she talks poor Joshua into a trip to Sea World."

"Yes, Mom."

Mom pauses with her hand on the doorknob. "You know," she adds in a studiedly casual manner, "that I'm quite willing to take a leave of absence any time you need my help."

Most women who move to Florida have visions of retirement and long lunches in their heads. Adira Lyman, on the other hand, left her beloved home in Connecticut because she was asked to oversee a group of women's shelters in the area. She's passionate about her work the same way her son is passionate about politics. The notion of retiring, or even taking a vacation, is alien to her. That she would make this offer amazes me as much now as it did before Molly was born.

But I worked so hard to stop being the lost little naif that Josh took in back during the first campaign that I can't allow myself the luxury of leaning too much on anyone for help. That was the good part when I was pregnant with Molly; there were so many people helping out in little ways that I didn't feel like I was depending too much on anyone. And as panicked as I am right now, I'm more worried about being too dependent. Or taking Mom away from her work. I am not going to be a burden to her, so I just assure her that I'm fine.

But, of course, Adira Lyman is not that easy to fool.

"It was different four years ago," she points out. "Now the Bartlets are in New Hampshire, CJ is in California with her new husband, Josh can't be with you twenty-four hours a day, plus you have the little one to look after." 

"I can cope," I tell her, but I can't manage to look her in the face when I say it.

"You and I are mother and daughter, Donna, because I love you, not because you married my son. You should let me show that more often."

I have adored Josh's mother from the moment I met her. The fact that this incredible woman thinks of me as a daughter is amazing, even after all these years. Honestly, I'm going to go off on another crying jag in a minute. I throw my arms around Mom with a fierceness that would do my impulsive daughter proud. "I love you so much, Mom. Maybe if it's not too much trouble, you could come stay with us for a couple of months in the winter. That way Josh can spend as much time as he needs to in Pennsylvania during the election, and you can help me get ready for the baby."

"Of course I will, my darling girl." Mom's eyes look as watery as mine feel. "Now let's go downstairs and get the little one ready for her trip."  
***

By the time seven or so underemployed college kids direct us to a parking spot -- as if I'm too feebleminded to park a damn car without light sticks and flag-waving -- I am suspicious. Because she'd planned the route out with the kind of attention to detail I usually reserve for, you know, national conventions, Donna navigated while I drove. Only I'm not quite convinced we're actually at Disney World. I turn off the car and give Donna a look. "This is all an elaborate ruse to get me to a mall, isn't it?"

Donna rolls her eyes at me, reaches over to dab coconut-scented sunblock on my nose, and turns to Molly. "Molly, where are we?"

"Goofy's house!" Molly answers, clapping her hands and kicking her little feet in excitement. Good thing she's still strapped in.

Before we retrieve our bouncing daughter from the backseat, Donna and I collect our Disney paraphernalia -- sunblock, a change of clothes, bottled water, and two cameras ("In case one breaks, Josh. Don't you want pictures of your daughter at EPCOT?") It takes both of us to hold Molly steady enough to slather more sunscreen on the skin left unprotected by her little Hello Kitty shirt and bright yellow shorts. She's wriggling with excitement, her fine blonde hair already slipping out of the hot pink barrettes she chose.

"Let's go, let's go, let's go," she repeats, her eyes trained on the end of the aisle, where our fellow Disneyers are all headed. I still don't see any evidence of the park itself. The only proof that we're at Disney World and not a large industrial park is the giant purple sign that reads "Pluto 22."

As soon as Molly catches sight of the parking shuttle -- a sort of fake train attached to a golf cart driven by a wizened old woman with an overly large grin; I'm not entirely sure I trust her to drive my daughter and pregnant wife around -- Molly's convinced it's a ride. She runs an exuberant little loop around us as we reach it. Apparently we could've saved $200 and just rode the tram around the damn parking lot all day.  
Donna gives me a look because she knows me well enough to guess what I'm thinking, and this entire trip is, after all, my fault. I grant her nonverbal point with a shrug and help our dancing four-year-old onto the train.

"Mommy, look! A big train!" Molly shouts, standing upright and pointing at the monorail visible up ahead. 

She's between us, and Donna and I grab her at the same time and sit her back down. "Molly," I admonish sharply. "What did we tell you?"

Molly really is her mother's daughter. She gives me those big, innocent eyes and a slight pout, and I'm totally won over. "I'm sorry, Daddy," she tells me. "Just 'cited."

Donna takes the rare opportunity to fix one of Molly's barrettes.

"It's okay, sweetie," I tell Molly, and she's dancing around on the seat again, her little heels drumming against the hardened plastic. Donna wasn't fast enough to get to the second barrette, so Molly's hair is half-tamed, half-wild, and she all but leaps over me when the tram stops.

We climb on the monorail and Molly peers intently out the window until the consumer-drenched, pastel-colored glory of Disney World is finally visible. I barely suppress a groan, but Molly doesn't notice. She's too intent on the view, her hands splayed out on either side of her face, her little nose squashed into the glass. I lean into Donna. "This must count as cruel and unusual."

Donna grins at me from under the bill of my stolen Mets hat and shrugs. "No, it's not, Josh."

"Like I'm going to trust the judgment of the woman who put our child on a leash," I reply with a pointed look at the spiraled plastic cord attached to a vaguely disturbing halter on Molly.

Donna rolls her eyes. "It's just until we put her in a stroller. Do you know how many people are at Disney on an average day in April?"

I grin at her. "No, but I'm sure you'll tell me."

She gives me a superior look. "About 50,000."

Before she can cite her sources -- most likely the hideous neon guide book Sam gave us -- Molly begins to bounce up and down and jabs her finger against the glass. "Mommy," she says, her tone reverent. "Daddy, look! Cinderella's castle."

This right here? This look of pure joy on my young daughter's face? This is why I tossed aside all objections to this overpriced, overrated theme park.

Beside me, Donna groans and whispers, "Do you know how many times we're going to have to reread _Girls to the Rescue_ to get all of this sexist crap out of her head?"

Yeah, it's possible Donna still blames me for accidentally agreeing to take Molly here. But she's no stronger than I am when it comes to Molly. When our daughter turns and looks up at us, tugging at our hands, trying to get us to move faster, blinking her big brown eyes at us, Donna melts too.

"C'mon," Molly says, pulling us forward. "We have to find Goofy!"

Donna gives me an amused look and follows just behind, holding Molly's hand and the silly leash contraption for good measure. It's a good thing Donna has a hold of her on the way down the hill to the park entrance. No doubt Molly would be running full tilt if she could. Patience is not one of my daughter's strong suits.

As always, Molly expresses her excitement through her entire body, her little hands are in the air, punctuating her words. And she's talking nonstop, narrating our trip through the turnstiles, pointing out the Disney World train. She can barely stand still for the requisite Happy Child at Disney World shot in front of the giant shrubbery Mickey.

Then we head down Main Street, and again, Molly would be happier if she could run straight down the center to Cinderella's castle on the other end. But we've got business to take care of first. Along the way, we collect a stroller, several articles of clothing with cartoon characters dancing around on them, and, of course, the promised Mickey Mouse ears.

"No," I tell Donna, shaking my head for emphasis.

"Josh--"

"You get one," I argue, arms crossed.

The hat embroidery people (for lack of an actual name, which I'm sure Donna knows but I'm loath to ask) are already working on Molly's hat, and she's entranced. She's ignoring her arguing parents completely.

"Josh, your daughter--"

"Has nothing to do with this," I interrupt. "You just want blackmail material."

My devious wife grins at me. "Josh Lyman, master politician, in Mouse ears? Hell, yes, I want blackmail material," she admits, her body brushing up against my side. "But your daughter will be so happy to see her dad in Mickey Mouse ears."

I'm about to protest when Molly turns around, clapping her chubby hands together in delight. "Daddy, you're gonna have a hat like mine?"

"Yes," Donna answers. "And he's going to wear it all day long."

I think I would've preferred the damn mall.  
End Part I


	2. Chapter 2

Josh is philosophically opposed to lunch.

It's not that he's against eating, mind you. He's just opposed to eating inside a castle.

"Aristocracy. Kings and princes. It's a small step from Fantasyland to special interests. We're Democrats. Is this what we want to be teaching our child?" he asks as we approach the entrance to Cinderella's castle. Molly, for once, is oblivious to her father's ramblings. She's too busy staring at the castle, her brown eyes wide and her mouth forming a perfect little O.

"I believe I may have raised similar objections when this scheme was proposed," I reply, laughing. You can't blame me; it's not easy to take a man seriously when he's wearing Mouse ears.

"Aren't there other restaurants?" Josh asks. He waves a hand at the crowd in front of us. "Ones that don't have a waiting line?"

"Oh ye of little faith," I reply as I pat Josh's shoulder. "I made reservations."

"Reservations?" Josh grins down at Molly, who has begun squirming around in her seat in her eagerness to get out of the stroller and storm the castle. "Molly Jordan, your mother is a genius."

"I know," Molly answers, but you can tell she's not paying attention to a word her parents are saying. As Josh kneels down to unbuckle her, she practically flies out of the stroller in her hurry to enter Cinderella's abode. 

After warning Molly not to let go of my hand, I leave the business of confirming our reservation and checking the stroller to Josh. Molly tugs at me, paying no heed to her father's warnings about running too fast as she drags me toward the castle.

She comes to an abrupt halt just inside, and it's a miracle I don't tumble over her.

Molly, you have to understand, isn't easily impressed by buildings. This is a child who spent the first three years of her life in the White House. She literally took her first steps in the Oval Office. She has logged more hours on Air Force One than most cabinet members have.

And yet this theme park castle has left her speechless.

"Come on, Molly. Let's wait inside for Daddy."

Molly nods and takes small, reverent steps past the entrance. "Mommy," she finally manages to say, "look at the windows."

"That's stained glass, sweetie."

"It's a picture!"

"Yes, it is." I guide her closer toward the window. "Each one's a different picture, see? They tell you the story of how Cinderella met the prince."

We study each window carefully, Molly insisting on being told what role every tree and flower and animal plays. Finally, we get to the one that shows Cinderella trying on her glass slipper for the prince.

"That's the part where they live happily ever after," I explain. I really feel the need to embellish here -- maybe send Cinderella off to college or have her do volunteer work -- but Molly's got that look on her face that usually means she's reaching her own conclusions.

She lets go of my hand as she moves closer to study the stained glass. Her eyes narrow, her fists rest on her tiny hips, and she tilts her head to the side. "What'd she get?" Molly finally asks.

It takes me a minute to realize that my child, in true Lyman fashion, is evaluating the outcome of the Cinderella story in political terms. "She got to marry the prince and live in the castle," I answer.

Molly turns back toward me and shakes her head sadly. "Cinderella didn't make a very good deal," she informs me solemnly.

When Molly starts talking about deals, you don't dare laugh. Deals, after all, are the sacred currency of the Moss-Lyman household. "Why do you think it wasn't a good deal?" I ask.

"'Cause," Molly answers. That apparently seems like a sufficient answer to her.

"Most people think she did all right," I point out.

"No." Molly shakes her head at the foolishness of "most people," who obviously lack her political acumen. "Cinderella's slipper was made out of glass," she adds, as though that explains everything.

I am suddenly exhilarated. I mean, if she's going where I think she's going with this, I can rest easy. My daughter's incipient feminism is in no danger from the Mouse and his minions.

"Glass hurts," Molly explains. "Like last year, when I cut my foot."

I nod. "When you broke Grandma's vase."

"I didn't mean to," she assures me. The broken vase, which belonged to Great-Aunt Tosha, is one of the great tragedies of Molly's young life. "I was just three, and I didn't know how to be careful. But I didn't have any shoes on, and the glass made my foot hurt."

"I remember." Believe me, the sight of your daughter sobbing her eyes out from a combination of pain over her cut foot and frustration at her inability to make her chubby little hands hold on to the pretty glass vase she loved so much? Not something you forget.

Molly points back to the picture of Cinderella trying on the slipper. "Dancing in glass shoes must hurt lots more than that."

"I would think so."

"And if Cinderella had to dance in glass shoes, she should get a really good deal."

"Fair point. But she did get to marry the prince and live in a castle."

Molly scrunches up her forehead as she ponders this point. "But the prince loved her, didn't he?" she asks.

"Yes, he did."

"So he would have married her anyway."

"True," I answer. I smile at Josh, who has returned just in time to hear Molly prove how completely she is his daughter. "But she still got the castle."

"She could have got more," Molly insists. "Maybe for the mice 'cause they helped her with her dress." She smiles as the solution occurs to her. "We can tell Cinderella to put that in her platform when she runs for re-election. I bet everybody'd vote for her if she promised to help the mice."

Yeah, my daughter believes that royalty is elected and that mice constitute an important swing vote.

But at least she's figured out that wearing glass slippers to impress a man is a bad idea.  
*  
Molly has had a somewhat unconventional childhood.

Her first sentence was spoken in the West Wing. By the age of three, she had clocked more than one hundred hours on Air Force One. The Secret Service gave her a code name of her own ("Backpack") when she was an infant, and her favorite babysitter is a member of Congress (otherwise known as "Uncle Sam").

So when Cinderella's Fairy Godmother arrives and makes the children line up in an orderly fashion to await the princess' arrival, Molly takes it all in stride. She understands terms like "protocol" and "security." She knows that you can't just go barging in on a head of state. She calmly takes her place in line, her father and I standing by her side. Meanwhile, the other children hop up and down in their excitement; they shout questions to the Fairy Godmother. One unfortunate set of parents have to take their toddler outside when he breaks into tears, having apparently confused Cinderella's Fairy Godmother with Snow White's Wicked Witch.

My daughter, on the other hand, uses this time to practice her curtsey.

Not long before President Bartlet left office, he made a state visit to Great Britain. The week before the trip, Dr. Bartlet came down with the flu, and it was decided that Zoey would take her mother's place for an audience with the Queen. This meant that Zoey had to spend a dozen hours going to Protocol School.

She hated it. Until the moment when, being Zoey, she found a way to turn protocol into a game. To the horror of everyone in the Office of Protocol, she and my then three-year-old turned Zoey's lessons into one long game of Queen Zoey Meets Princess Molly.

They practiced the rules for taking high tea. (For the next month, Molly pretended that everything she ate was a cucumber sandwich.) They memorized who was to be addressed as "my lady," who was "your grace," what was the difference between calling someone "your highness" and referring to them as "your majesty." Work in the West Wing came to a halt one afternoon when ladies-in-waiting were called for, and Ladies Margaret, Carol, Bonnie, Ginger and Donnatella made appearances.

Mostly, however, Zoey and Molly practiced the art of the curtsey. As a result, Molly can make quite an elegant curtsey. She knows exactly how far down she should bow and how long to maintain the curtsey before rising. But, because she is Molly, her absolute favorite part is not the curtsey; it's the speech.

Disaster is looming. I must head it off.

"You don't have to curtsey for Cinderella," I explain, bending down to look my daughter in the eye.

Molly, who is busy practicing for her way too indulgent father, looks up at me as though I have lost my mind.

"But Cinderella's a princess," Molly replies.

"A fantasy princess," I answer. My daughter is looking particularly crestfallen; she hasn't had many opportunities to show off her curtsey since the Republicans took office. Watching her do the pout that usually precedes tears, I decide I'd rather not elaborate on the difference between fantasy and reality. Maybe if Molly updated the speech... No, then my husband would go ballistic.

"A fancy princess," Molly repeats to herself softly. Looking to her father for support, she suggests, "Maybe I'd better bow lower."

My Mouse-ear clad freak of a husband simply smiles and nods.

"Josh," I start to protest, "don't you realize--"

Ignoring me, Josh bends down and puts his hands on Molly's shoulders. "Know what I think?" he asks. "I think Lady Donnatella over there is jealous 'cause only little kids are introduced to the princess."

"Mommy!" Molly hugs me. "I promise I'll in'duce you to Cinderella." Before I can protest any further, Molly is at the front of the line.

I have to admit that her performance would make Zoey and the Office of Protocol proud. Molly places her left leg behind her and sinks almost to the floor in one rather elegant motion. She's wearing shorts, which could spoil the illusion; but she compensates by taking bits of fabric between her thumbs and index fingers, as if pulling on the edges of an imaginary ballgown. I swear that some of the other parents are applauding.

My child is hardly the first little girl to curtsey to Cinderella, who's undoubtedly been prepped on how to respond. "Why, thank you, milady," the Disney princess replies.

Taking that for encouragement, my daughter looks up at Cinderella and, at the top of her lungs, recites, "Your highness, I am Princess Molly Jordan Moss-Lyman. I bring you greetings and felicitations on behalf of President Josiah Bartlet and the people of the United States of America."

Around us, a few people snicker at the child who doesn't know who the president is, Cinderella looks baffled, and others whisper as the Moss-Lyman name recalls memories of a shooting and a half-forgotten sex scandal.

And that sound you hear? That would be me beating my head against the castle wall.  
***

I'm not really clear on why Goofy lives on a farm. Or has a farm. Or whatever. I thought Goofy was a dog, not a, you know, farm animal. The idea of a dog owning a farm, actually, puts me in mind of talking pigs and _Animal Farm_. As a Democrat, I'm not a big fan of the concept of "more equal." That's the Republican line -- their corporate sponsors are just a little more equal than the rest of us lowly taxpayers.

But Goofy is, after all, the Disney character that started us on this hellish trip, and Molly's going to meet him, Orwellian allusions be damned. It's not until we're at Goofy's farm, looking at a particularly small and unexciting looking roller coaster that Donna, the Keeper of the Disney Map, informs me that Goofy the character is not confined to the farm named for him. I find this incredibly irritating, especially since Goofy is the reason we're all here.

Although Molly is clearly disappointed by Goofy's absence, she agrees to ride "The Barnstormer at Goofy's Wiseacre Farm." With a positively smug grin, Donna informs me that she cannot go on the ride, and so it's just Molly and me. The roller coaster is supposed to be a crop duster (or so I'm told), and it is incredibly lame. Even my four-year-old daughter is unimpressed.

"Daddy," she says as I help her off the ride, "I like the big train in the sky better."

So apparently I could've mollified my daughter's Disney wishes by bringing her back and forth from the parking lot to the entrance all day. I don't even want to think about how much money we'd have saved that way.

I'm still calculating (I'm much better with a pen and paper or, you know, a calculator) when I catch sight of Donna, who is waving us over to her. I navigate the throngs of Disneyfied families to reach my wife, who triumphantly points out none other than Goofy himself, holding court a hundred or so yards away. After a small skirmish over whether Molly needed to get back into the stroller for that short a distance -- Donna and I won after pointing out that she didn't want to get tired and have to leave early -- we set off to meet Goofy.

So far this morning, my daughter has not been the slightest bit intimidated, not even when she greeted a pretend princess. (And to be honest, the moment Molly very seriously conveyed greetings and felicitations from Josiah Bartlet to the baffled actress in the uncomfortable-looking blue dress, I kicked myself for not buying one of those infernal camcorders so that I could send a copy to the President.) Despite my daughter's near-unshakable self-confidence, the sight of a real live Goofy has left her a wide-eyed, mute little girl whose hand is clasped tightly in mine.

"Goofy's real," Molly whispers, awed.

"Yes, he is," I answer, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze.

Molly's head tilts to the side as she stares at Goofy, posing for pictures with an array of little red-headed children, the oldest of whom looks decidedly hostile.

My daughter tugs on my hand urgently, and Donna and I lean down closer to her height. "Daddy," she declares in a tone that conveys both irritation and disappointment, "he's too big."

Startled, Donna and I exchange a look. My resourceful wife takes advantage of Molly's relative quiescence to refasten one of her barrettes, which was sliding ever closer to the ends of her hair. "What do you mean?"

"Goofy," she tells us confidently, "is this big." Molly pulls her hand from mine and demonstrates, holding her hands about a foot apart. Apparently, Molly had been expecting to meet a plush-toy-sized talking dog.

Donna hides a grin. "Honey, that Goofy doll that--" she frowns, glancing at me-- "somebody gave you is a replica."

"I didn't buy that," I protest; Donna ignores me.

"Goofy is not a Republican," Molly argues vehemently.

One hopes, anyway. I still wonder about the communist thing, though. "Not Republican. Replica," I say it slowly. "The Goofy you have isn't... life-sized."

Molly finds this concept a little strange. Which isn't too surprising, considering her Goofy is the size a dog should be, while this upright, costume-wearing, minimum-wage slave is about three times too big. "What's a replican?"

"Replic-AH," Donna corrects gently. "It's sort of like a picture. You know how the Molly in the picture on the wall isn't the same size as the real Molly?"

Molly shakes her head stubbornly and insists, "Goofy's this big."

"Hey, Molly, remember when I took you to see the big Lincoln on the Mall?"

Her face brightens, and she sits upright in her stroller, mimicking Lincoln's pose. "I like the steps," she confides.

I grin at my daughter. "Yes, those are some damn nice -- Ow!" I yelp as Donna elbows me. "Some darn nice steps."

With an eloquent eye roll, Donna picks up the metaphor. "Lincoln was very big, wasn't he?"

Molly nods, remembering. She stretches up, lifting one hand as far as she can above her head. "He was this tall."

"Yes, he was. That statue of Lincoln was much, much bigger than the real Lincoln," Donna explains. "President Lincoln was a real man, like Uncle Jed."

Molly nods, her expression serious. "Is President Lincoln a friend of Uncle Jed's?"

"No, President Lincoln lived a long time ago," I explain. "Back when the Democratic Party was actually a bunch of lily-livered--"

"Josh," Donna admonishes, before I can lecture Molly on the sad, dishonorable history of the Democratic Party.

"Right. Anyway, Lincoln lived a long time ago, but he was a real man, a normal-sized man, and that really, really big statue on the Mall is a replica. Replicas don't have to be the same size as the thing that they're... replicating," I finish lamely.

Donna smirks at me for a moment, then heads off the inevitable linguistic examination of the word "replicate" with "So your Goofy, Molly, is a small replica of the real Goofy." She points to the giant dog waiting patiently for the little curly-headed boy to stop crying and allow his parents the picture they really seem to want.

Molly stares at Goofy, her mouth pursed into a small replica of the frown my wife often gets when she's confronted with what she calls my idiotic lapses in judgment. "But Daddy," Molly says after a moment. "Dogs aren't that big."

I toss my wife a panicked look, and she pats Molly's back. "Goofy," Donna tells our daughter, "is a very special dog. Are you ready to go meet him?"

I bite back comments about radiation exposure and mutations, which Donna surely expects considering the glare she's giving me, while Molly decides.

"Okay," she says. And just like that, she's running toward Goofy to launch herself into his arms. Luckily, the guy inside the Goofy suit saw her coming and wraps her in a big hug. "Goofy!" Molly yells up at him. "I love you!"

Like the other "animals" here, Goofy doesn't respond verbally, but with a series of elaborate gestures. Molly is puzzled for a moment, watching Goofy cross his hands over his heart, then pat her shoulder.

"Mommy!" Molly shouts, delighted as she turns back to look at us, "Goofy's like the lady who talks with her hands!"

"Oh, no, Josh," Donna mutters to me from behind her camera. "How much sign language has Joey taught her?"

I really have no idea. "Uh..."

"Honey," Donna answers our daughter. "Smile for the camera, okay?"

"Wait, Mommy," Molly answers, stepping away from Goofy and facing him. Her hands fly through the air as she tells him... well, who knows, really? My knowledge of American Sign Language is pretty much confined to the letters and "Thank you." And possibly some cursing. Donna's not much better, and she watches our daughter with concern.

But Goofy nods very seriously and beckons for Molly to move closer. She hurls herself back into his arms, giggling, and then turns to wave at the camera.

I think this whole nightmarish day might be worth it for the look on my daughter's face right now.

I hope Donna got a picture of Molly instructing Goofy in sign language so that we can send a copy to Joey Lucas.  
***

"Mommy, I want a hat!"

You see what I mean about Disney and crass commercialism? A few hours in this place, and my daughter has become one of those children who demands all the latest, shiniest toys from her parents.

Not that a hat is a toy, strictly speaking, but my point still holds.

"You have a very nice hat, Molly," I point out. "It even has your name on it."

"But I want to look like a fairy princess." Molly points to a family group walking past us toward Cinderella's castle. A little girl who looks about seven or eight is in the middle of the group, wearing one of those cone-shaped hats with its veil-like gauze hanging down her back. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty -- I saw all those movies, and I don't recall any Disney princess wearing a hat like that. Yet Disney World seems to be populated by little girls wearing those things.

You can't expect a child with Molly's keen powers of observation and heightened sense of the dramatic to ignore those hats.

But here's the thing; here is where I stood firm: I agreed to balloons, Mouse ears, maybe a t-shirt. I made it clear to Molly before we came here that she would not be allowed to buy every little toy that caught her eye.

When I was four, I would have killed for a fairy princess hat like that one.

This is where they get you, these Disney people. This is where they're especially clever. It's not just your desire to please your children they play to; it's your own thwarted childhood dreams they exploit. It's that lingering sense that you might have been happier if you could have dressed like a fairy princess just once. So of course you'll spend all your hard-earned money on a hat that will no doubt get squashed and bent out of shape when you pack it for the flight home. Because wearing a hat like that will bring your child joy.

If you're going to set rules for a child, you don't cave on these matters. Especially not if your child, like Molly, is always looking for ways to outsmart her parents.

I am, I hope, the picture of a stern parent as I ask, "What did we say about buying things, Molly?"

"That I could have a Mouse hat," Molly acknowledges, using her resigned voice.

She gazes up at Josh, her brown eyes barely visible through the blonde hair that has once again slipped loose from its barrettes. "But that was 'fore I knew they had fairy princess hats." Her voice suddenly takes on her "I have found the flaw in the parental argument" tone.

Josh, as always unwilling to deny his daughter anything, picks Molly up and grins. "Fair point," he replies. "We could perhaps make an exception -- I move for passage of the Fairy Princess Hat Amendment." He swings around so that he and Molly are facing me. Two pairs of brown eyes stare out from underneath identical Mouse ear hats. Molly looks ecstatic, while Josh looks -- well, let's just say he could be a very lucky man after Molly goes to sleep tonight.

Especially if he promises to keep the Mouse ears on.

However, I am not caving quite so easily.

"If we pass this amendment," I ask, noting that Molly has quite the little Lyman smirk in place, now that she thinks she'll win, "what do I get in exchange for my support?"

Josh doesn't say a word; he just wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

"Molly," I ask again, ignoring Josh, "what do I get?"

Molly holds her arms out. "A great big hug," she announces.

It's really hard not to hug her and run to the first gift store immediately. However, I'm trying to make a point here, so I resist the temptation to give her what she wants. "Very tempting," I reply, "but I hope you don't expect me to buy you something every time I get a hug."

Josh stops the eyebrow waggling as the horror of this plan hits him -- a world where Molly thinks she's entitled to get her way in exchange for every show of affection.

We'd be broke before the week was out.

Molly scrunches up her face with the effort of thinking up something that will make me agree to her father's amendment. "I'll clean my room," she suggests.

"We already give you an allowance for cleaning your room," I point out. The disappointment on her face is more than I can deal with, so I make a suggestion. "What about if you help me set the dinner table every day while we're at Grandma's house?"

That perks her right up. "Can I wear my fairy princess hat while I help you?"

"Absolutely," I agree. I'll probably be following her around with a camera, just to get a picture of that.

Molly nods. "Deal," she says. Then, turning back to look at her father, she adds excitedly, "Daddy, I'm going to look like a fairy princess!"

Josh hugs her tighter. "You already do, Molly," he says. "Just like your mommy."

Yeah, he is so getting lucky tonight.  
*  
"Twelve, thirteen, fifteen, nineteen, twenty-two, sixty-seven," Molly mutters. It's not that her math skills are lacking; it's just that when she's impatient, she tends to skip ahead. "Mommy, there are sixty-seven people in line in front of us."

We're stuck at the top of the line, going down toward where the boats are waiting to take the latest round of children on the Ten-Minutes-of-Hell Ride, aka "It's a Small World." There's some kind of hold up with the boats; some trouble getting a child in a wheelchair transferred onto the boats, apparently. The line isn't moving at all, something that is making my impatient daughter very unhappy.

"I'm sure the line will move soon, honey," I reassure her. I may sound a tad distracted, however. I'm busy watching the extremely cute Mouse-eared Master Politician walking off purposefully to buy his daughter a fairy princess chapeau. Watching him strutting into the distance, you'd think he was gearing up to do battle with the Baker administration.

Except that buying his daughter a silly hat that she'll enjoy for a few hours means more to him than winning an election.

He's a very complicated man, my husband.

My husband. Yeah, it's possible I may be smiling. Even after all these years, I still get all warm and fuzzy sometimes realizing that he's mine.

"Mommy," Molly says, tugging insistently on my arm, "come on. The line's moving!"

I let my daughter lead me two steps closer to the head of the line. "Sorry, sweetie, I was looking at something."

Molly turns her gaze from the head of the line to her father's retreating figure. "You were looking at Daddy," she says. "'Cause you love him."

"Yes, I do." We take another three steps forward.

I hear that they play that silly song the entire ten minutes you're on the ride. 

I wonder if I brought enough Tylenol.

Molly tugs on my hand again. There's no way we can move forward, so I'm guessing she has one of her "Please explain how the world works and don't leave out any of the details" questions. Those questions always require thoughtful answers (because, honestly, no, I don't know why cats purr, much less why Grandpa Noah had to go to heaven before his grandchild was born). I've found that bending down so that our eyes meet at least helps Molly understand that whatever answer I give her is sincere.

"How come Cinderella fell in love with the prince?" Molly asks.

Well, that's an easy one. "Because he was the prince."

"That's not a good reason," Molly insists solemnly. "Not all princes are nice, you know."

"Really?"

"Yes," she nods. "Uncle Jed says so."

My daughter has the strangest conversations with her honorary family. "Well, he would know. He's met a lot of princes." 

"So Cinderella must love the prince for another reason."

As I remember Disney's Cinderella, there pretty much wasn't another reason. She went to the ball, they danced, that was it. She had a more substantive relationship with the mice. 

"Well, I'm sure he was a very nice prince," I reply. Judging from Molly's skeptical expression, "nice" isn't enough of a selling point. "I'm sure he was kind. And smart."

"Like Daddy?"

"Yes, for your father is a prince among men." It's just possible that I may be rolling my eyes here. Molly laughs delightedly, clutching her tummy with her free hand to indicate just how hilarious she thinks her mother is.

Her laughter subsiding, Molly asks, "How come you fell in love with Daddy?"

"Because he's kind and smart." Seems like a safe answer, sticking with that theme.

Molly, however, never settles for easy answers. "Uncle Toby's kind and smart," she points out. "So's Uncle Sam."

"Yes, well, I saw your daddy first." I look over the top of Molly's head: still no movement in the line, no easy way out of this conversation.

And my daughter is staring at me, clearly wanting a full explanation for something that is impossible to explain.

"Your daddy is a very special man," I explain. "And, yes, I know that Uncle Toby and Uncle Sam are special too. But your daddy -- your daddy's funny and caring, and he tries so hard to make the world a good place, and it hurts him so much if he can't do that. Plus he was the very first person, even before Aunt CJ, who believed that I could do absolutely anything I tried to do. I think your daddy's just about the most special man ever." 

Molly cocks her head to one side, contemplating what I've just said. "Do you think I'll ever meet anybody as special as Daddy?"

What on earth do you say to that? Promise her that, yes, she'll find Prince Charming and live happily ever after? Take this moment to remind her that she doesn't need a man to be happy? Warn her about unscrupulous med students?

"Well," I say slowly, "I certainly hope so. Because I want my little girl to be as happy as I am when she grows up." The line starts moving again, so I stand back up and start to move forward. Molly is cheering, which seems strange, considering that she isn't turned toward the head of the line any longer.

I follow her gaze toward the distance, where Josh is walking back toward us, loaded down with the long-awaited fairy princess hat, a magic wand and a few more t-shirts. Dork. Funny, kind, caring, smart dork. I bend down one more time to impart a last bit of advice in Molly's ear before her father joins us. "Look for dimples," I whisper. "You definitely want to find a man with dimples."  
***

It's been five hours of Disney.

Five hours of being outside and five hours of the sun, the omnipresent smell of popcorn baking in the heat, and the tinny, repetitive torture of It's a Small World. Molly, you see, loved the ride. We went on it three times.

Three. Times.

That song is permanently lodged in my head. Also Molly's, since she's bouncing around in her stroller, arms waving in the air as she belts out It's a Small World at the top of her lungs.

My darling wife is not helping matters. Instead of, I don't know, finding me ear plugs, she's coaching our daughter on how to sing the damn thing in French. You know, so the torture can last twice as long.

"Josh," Donna admonishes. I must have a sour expression on my face. Donna, of course, is still fresh and energetic, though she's flushed a bit from the sun. Even under her Mets hat. I don't know how she's still so damn peppy. She actually seems to be enjoying the plastic insanity that is Disney World.

We've done Main Street, U.S.A., Cinderella's castle, the Golden Carousel, Dumbo the Flying Elephant, the Tea Party -- and I really think Donna got too much damn amusement out of that -- and we saw Goofy's farm. I'm ready to go home.

Hell, I've been ready to leave since we got off the monorail. Or possibly even since we parked in "Pluto 22."

Molly, however, is in some sort of Disney-induced state of frenetic, joyous psychosis. She's been in overdrive since we arrived, and I have a feeling the inevitable crash is going to be spectacular.

And not in a good way.

But right now, I'm more concerned with the hideous sign defacing the Hall of Presidents. "No," I tell Donna, pointing at the sign for emphasis. "I am not going in there."

Molly's not paying us much attention, still cheerily singing in French. "Say one Pete--"

"Petite," Donna corrects, her accent flawless. Leaning down a bit, she brushes back Molly's hair and straightens the Mickey ears. Then she picks up the argument without missing a beat. "It's educational, Josh. All the presidents--"

"Exactly," I interrupt. "All of them. We're too late."

My wife and I turn baleful looks at the Hall of Presidents. Because right now, it's draped with bunting and sporting a huge sign that says: "The Hall of Presidents Welcomes Gregory W. Baker!"

Then Donna starts laughing. "Josh, Molly already knows that Baker--"

"That doesn't mean we need to subject her to the obsequious bull--"

"Josh!"

Reflexively, I glance down at Molly, hoping she didn't catch that. She's still ignoring us. Her little blonde head is bowed, and all I can see of her from my vantage point is the Molly stitched into the back of her Mickey ears. My matching set is stashed, I'm happy to say, in a bag alongside Molly's new Goofy pajamas, a Mickey t-shirt, the cone-shaped princess hat, and a stuffed Dumbo that Donna bought her over my strong objections. Republican toys? I knew this place was the seventh circle of hell.

I open my mouth to argue, but Molly's plaintive wail interrupts me. Donna and I nearly crash into each other to kneel down in front of our daughter, but it's already clear what happened. Molly is struggling against the safety belt, her entire body straining upwards, hands splayed, reaching in vain for her oversized Mickey Mouse balloon.

It's already too high for us to rescue, a bright orange, misshapen blot in the blue, blue sky, floating lazily away.

"Mommy," Molly cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Balloon!"

Her words are barely understandable between her sobs. Donna fumbles with the safety belt, making soothing noises. I'm alternately telling Molly everything will be okay and glaring up at the rapidly disappearing balloon. How dare it make my daughter cry?

Happiest place on earth, my ass.

The strap releases, and I pull Molly out of the seat and into my arms. Donna brushes her palm along my arm, letting me know she understands my tendency to be overprotective of her when she's pregnant, and then wraps her arms around the both of us. Molly's chubby arms are looped around my neck, her little body shaking with sobs.

"Molly Jordan," I say softly. "It's okay. We can get you another balloon."

That just makes her cry harder. Donna and I exchange puzzled looks. I can tell from the edge in Molly's voice that she's overtired.

"Molly?" It's possible there's an edge to my voice now. It physically pains me to see Molly so upset.

Donna takes over the questioning, asking, "Honey, what's the matter?"

I swear to God, it sounds like Molly just said "Whales." I'm flummoxed, convinced I must've misheard her, but Donna looks stricken.

"Molly Jordan," Donna says urgently, her arms tightening around us. "It's okay. You didn't hurt any whales."

I catch Donna's eye and give her a look that loosely translates to "What the hell are you talking about?" 

Predictably, Donna ignores me and concentrates on our daughter, who's nodding her head even though her tearstained face is still pressed into my neck.

"Did," she manages, her voice sodden with tears and remorse. "Killed a whale."

And then it clicks. I vaguely remember something Sam mentioned in passing at Molly's birthday party. Helium balloons that land in oceans and are eaten by whales. Doesn't sound like a very common occurrence, but it can kill the whales, and Molly, who is as compassionate as her mother, can't bear the thought of hurting another living creature.

"Did you let the balloon go on purpose?" Donna asks gently.

Molly lifts her head, and the sight of her face crumpled in pain, tears flooding her eyes, makes me want to wrap her in cotton and surround her with a thousand balloons and a thousand people who love her. Molly shakes her head, one of the pink barrettes tumbling down to the ground. "No," she answers. "Wanted Mickey on my wrist."

Donna nods. "So you untied it from the stroller to put it on your wrist?"

A fresh wave of tears, and Molly lowers her eyes. "Yes."

Donna presses a kiss to her forehead. "It was an accident, Molly," she says firmly. "You didn't do it on purpose."

I tilt her face up until she's looking me in the eye and then smooth the soft blonde locks, damp with tears, back behind her ears. "It's okay. You're a good, kind girl, Molly, and you would never do something like that on purpose."

She watches me for a moment, then says, "Don't wanna hurt the whales."

"I know that, and so do the whales."

Donna gives me a look, and I shrug. I don't know what the hell I'm talking about at this point, I just want my daughter to stop crying. I want her to be happy, laughing like she was this afternoon on the -- "Molly, let's go on the teacups again," I suggest.

Molly looks up at me, sniffling a little. "I thought your tummy hurt from the teacups."

"Your mother was exaggerating," I tell her, ignoring the muffled snickers coming from Donna's direction. I'll be damned if I'll let a Disney ride beat me.

Molly rubs one palm across her cheek. "Did I hurt the whales?"

"I'm sure you didn't," I tell her. "Now let's go back to the teacups. Donna? Where the hell are the--"

"Heck, Joshua."

I roll my eyes, which makes Molly giggle. "Okay. Where the heck are the teacups, Donna?"

Molly's little face starts to brighten. "Really, Daddy? We can go on the teacups again?"

Donna leans down and rescues Molly's barrette from the ground. "Yes, Daddy's tough."

Molly straightens her spine, her little chin jutting out with determination as she swipes one hand across her face to wipe away the tears. "I'm tough, too, Mommy."

Donna tenderly brushes Molly's unruly blonde hair back. "Yes, you are."  
*  
"I was not green," I protest. Again.

No one's listening to me anyway, so I don't know why I bother. Molly, refreshed from her bath and wearing her fairy princess hat, is zipping around the room like a lunatic. She's supposed to be helping to set the table, but none of us considered it a good idea to let her run around with knives and forks. She's currently using the napkins she's supposed to be folding as fairy wings. I think. Meanwhile, Donna and my mother are laughing, either at my daughter's antics, or me. One can never tell with those two.

"He was, Mom," Donna argues, laughing. I think she's taking some special pleasure out of this, considering she's been plagued with morning sickness for weeks and I stupidly told her once, in a fit of anxiety, that I would gladly go through the nausea part of things if I could. "I've never seen anyone actually turn green. I thought it was just an expression."

My mother pats me on the shoulder as she passes by. "Did you get sick?"

"No," I answer, slightly churlish.

"Good," mom says, pulling out a platter of latkes. "So you'll enjoy the latkes I made for--" She breaks into laughter as I bolt from the kitchen at the thought of fried anything.

I'm not sick or anything. I wasn't sick on the Teacups either, no matter what they say. I was just a little... dizzy. And I think it was just all that centrifugal force -- at one point, I got it spinning so fast that I couldn't get my hands back onto the wheel, but I didn't care because Molly was laughing so hard she was hiccupping. Of course, being plastered to the hard plastic by g-forces did not make my back very happy.

It's been bothering me for a couple hours, too much for the standing-against-the-wall trick to work. Instead, I gingerly lower myself to the floor, lying flat on my back in the middle of my mother's brocade rug. It's a little scratchy, but I ignore that and concentrate on the oddly pleasing sensation of my spine lengthening against the floorboards.

I don't bother to open my eyes when I hear my mother's familiar footsteps approaching. For a second, I'm a kid again, lying on my parents' floor, listening to my mom walking toward me. But I can still hear my daughter's silvery laugh and my wife's dulcet tones drifting out from the kitchen. Very relaxing.

"I see," my mother says, pausing near my feet, "that you've progressed to the floor instead of the wall. Any particular reason?" 

"It feels better," I answer. "Plus -- Oof!" 

The light but unexpected bulk of a four-year-old girl lands precipitously on my stomach. My eyes fly open to find my daughter staring down at me, grinning impishly, her fairy princess hat perched at a perilous angle atop her head. Her chubby hands land on my cheeks. "Hi, Daddy!"

I grin at her, not yet able to breathe or, you know, form words.

"Molly likes this better," Donna explains, appearing at the top edge of my vision. She's standing near my head, and is upside down in my skewed view of the world. Even so, I can tell she's giving me her concerned face.

I smile up at her. "I'm fine," I mouth, still not able to talk. Though I almost have my breath back.

Molly reaches up to straighten her hat, and her eyes light up. "Mommy!" she gasps. "I have an idea!"

"You do?" Donna laughs, ruffling Molly's hair as she slips past us to join my mother on the couch.

Molly plants both hands solidly on my chest and pushes herself up, leaving me breathless one more time. She doesn't seem to notice, skipping around my prone form in that excited way of hers. How she has any energy left after a day at Disney is totally beyond me. Me, I'm exhausted and dreading tomorrow's journey to EPCOT, but Molly seems unfazed. "Grandma!" she exclaims, racing over to her grandmother and climbing onto her lap. "Want me to tell you a story?"

"I would love to hear a story." My mother looks delighted, picturing, I'm sure, a demure tale about animated bunnies told by a stationary little girl.

Instead, Molly cheers, slides down from her grandmother's lap, and yanks on Donna's hand. I swear, if they could bottle her energy, we would no longer be dependent on oil-producing countries. "C'mon, Mommy! You be Gargary Baker!"

"Gregory," I correct with a smug grin. This might be amusing after all if my lovely wife is playing the role of The Dastardly Villain. She's kinda sexy when she's evil.

Donna looks appalled. "You want me to be--"

"The Republican," Molly nods. In our family, "Republican" is pretty much synonymous with "Dastardly Villain," which is why Sam tries to avoid bringing Ainsley to visit. "'Cause Daddy won't do it!" Molly points out. "'sides, he's the prince."

My mother hides her smile in her teacup. Donna gives me a long-suffering look, but pushes herself up and allows Molly to position her standing over me. I roll onto my side to get up, but Molly puts a warning hand on my shoulder. "No, Daddy. You're the prince," she says, as if that explains everything.

"Okay," I tell her, lounging with my weight on one elbow. "What does the prince have to do?"

Her hands on her hips, Molly gives me that combination eye roll and head tilt that she learned from her mother and says, her tone exasperated, "Daddy, the prince is in the tower. Gargary Baker locked him up and the Fairy Princess has to rescue him!" She gives a tug, and I fall back into a prone position.

If I had to guess, I would say that all three adults in the room are now beaming at my precocious four-year-old. I can't see my mother, but my wife sure looks proud. "Who," I ask, "is playing the Fairy Princess?"

"Daddy!" Molly says, pointing at her hat. "I'm the Fairy Princess!"

"Yes, you are, Little One," my mother says. "Tell me a story."  
*  
"That was quite a bedtime story," I murmur into Donna's hair as I pull her closer to me in bed.

"Yes," she agrees, laughing. She leans away from me to replace the lotion on the nightstand then fits her body against mine. Her arms slide around my back, her fingernails skimming down my spine until I shiver. Her laughter changes tone, grows more throaty. "I don't think we have much to worry about."

After a moment, I answer with an intelligent, erudite "Huh?"

"Your daughter?" Donna prompts, one hand sliding down a little further, tracing along the waistband of my boxers.

"Yeah?" I ask. I mean, really, does she expect intelligent conversation with her hand in its current position?

"I said, I don't think we have much to worry about with Molly."

"Right," I agree.

Donna releases me, pulling back to give me a moderately annoyed look. I'm not worried, though, considering the way her gaze keeps dropping to my chest, my shoulders, my arms. She's only slightly less distracted than I am, and I know the perfect way to balance the scales. "You're not paying attention to me, Josh -- Ooooh."

I let her nightgown drop back into place and give her an unrepentant grin. "Now who's not paying attention?"

"Oh, I'm paying attention, just not to whatever we were talking about," she answers, leaning forward to kiss me for several long, enjoyable moments.

"Uh, Donna?" I ask when she pulls away, both of us breathing heavy.

"Yeah?" Her hands are busy again, tracing patterns on my chest.

"Did you have a point before?"

"A point?"

"About Molly."

She stops, frowning. "Yes," she answers finally. "My point is, all this Disney crap obviously hasn't warped her self-image. She still thinks girls can rescue boys every bit as well as boys can rescue girls." Donna grins at me. "I knew having an aunt like CJ would do wonders for her."

"Donna," I brush a lock of hair out of her face so that I can see her properly in the dim light, "I agree that CJ is a positive influence on Molly, but our daughter is a strong little girl because she has a strong mother."

Her hands tighten on my upper arms, and she favors me with a brilliant smile. "So," she says after a moment, her voice suspiciously watery, "you like strong women, huh?"

"You know it." I slide my hands underneath her nightgown again.

"You like to be told what to do," she continues, nibbling on my neck.

"Yeah," I breathe, concentrating more on the scent of her skin than her words. "Wait -- what? Who says I like being told what to--?"

"Shut up, Josh." Her laughter is sweet and playful, and, really, that should have been ample warning. But I was far too distracted by the silky skin under her nightgown to see it coming.

There's a sudden pressure on the top of my head, then an elastic snaps into place under my chin and I stare at my wife, mouth agape. "Donna!"

She adjusts the Mickey Mouse ears on my head. "There. Oh, no, you don't," she admonishes, grabbing my hands before I can tear the hat off.

"Donna, I look ridiculous!"

"You look sweet, Josh." She refuses to move, holding the damn Mouse ears on my head, even as I try to wriggle out of them.

"Yes," I grumble, "because all men of my acquaintance strive to look sweet for their wives."

Donna gives me a curious look. "You really talk to Sam about how you want to be perceived by your--" 

"Donna!" 

She leans down and kisses me soundly. "Leave the damn ears on, Josh." Her lithe body presses against mine. "Trust me," she whispers, "you'll be glad you did." 

I acquiesce, of course, and wrap her in my arms. "There is something very, very wrong with you."

THE END  
02.16.02


End file.
